Dreams Worth Keeping
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: One evening in June of 1861, little Maggie Barlow's life changed forever. Margaret Brackenreid has not forgotten this. [Complete. 1898 MTB/family ensemble with flashbacks. Triggers for death and injury]


A/N: Welcome to backstory hell. This would make more sense if you've read the two Brackenreid fics I've posted recently. I've mentioned that what caused Margaret to be sheltered by her parents was the death of her brothers... _well_ , I apologize in advance for breaking your heart.

There will be a period of radio silence while I prepare my first full length effort. I hope you all will indulge me in that. I'm warning you now that there are _heavy trigger warnings_ for death and injury here. I read about the two Great Fires of Toronto, in 1849 and again in 1904. I anticipate that the second will be mentioned in the show, for it was a momentous event in the city's history. Let us take a moment of silence for everyone that lost their lives, property, or loved ones. Tragedies are tragedies, no matter how far from history we might grow from them.

Complete. MTB somewhere in 1898. Not necessarily in violation of canon unless you count my slight skewing of ages. Now, excuse me while I check my smoke detectors. Enjoy, and I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving!

 **Dreams Worth Keeping**

"Welcome home, dear," Margaret called over her shoulder at the sound of the front door opening. There was a pause, and then two sets of heavy footsteps came thundering down the staircase in her direction.

"Father!" One of the boys cried, causing the man in question to laugh heartily. She stepped out of the kitchen just for a moment to witness the gathering scene, a small smile on her face.

Thomas clapped John roughly on the back and ruffled Bobby's hair, dropping his briefcase on the floor in the process. There it would more than likely stay until the following morning.

She removed her apron and slung it over her shoulder, asking, "Busy day?"

This was enough to divert his attention. Thomas moved towards his wife, hooked an arm around her waist, and kissed her soundly. Then, ignoring his son's cries of ' _ew_ ' and ' _ugh_ ', replied, "Another day, another case solved. Murdoch's detective skills are unparalleled, and I'm proud to say your old man played a part in putting the killer behind bars."

Bobby gaped in awe, while his older brother appeared a little more skeptical. "How's that?"

He was clearly prepared to run the gauntlet once he returned home, for Thomas launched into a long-winded explanation of how he'd recognized the suspect as a patron of one of the taverns he frequented. The foursome rounded the corner into the dining room, where the table was set for a three course dinner.

Having a meal prepared before her husband arrived home in the evening was one of Margaret's most noticeable and repeated accomplishments. As a housewife that was constantly consumed with the task of keeping her dwelling clean and the washing complete, it was the little things that mattered.

Just as the family had sat down, she was struck with realization. "I've forgotten the napkins!" Margaret exclaimed, standing up with a jolt and moving towards the linen closet in the hallway.

One of the boys is asked to remove the bread from the oven, for it should be baked all the way through. Almost immediately came the scraping of two chairs on the hardwood floor as both Bobby and John ran to attend to her wishes. This was no ordinary sourdough for lunches, but a confection coated with cinnamon and sugar and studded on the inside with almonds. If they were lucky, they might even get to douse their treat in honey, a rare opportunity indeed.

She remembers very little from the following incident, whether by repression or by chance. The door securing the oven is swung open with such force that it hits the wall, muffling the sound of the brothers' squabbling. Then there's a moment of silence as two chubby hands shoots out and seizes the rim of the cast iron pan. Seconds later, one of her sons is screaming as if the devil himself was on their tail.

Margaret reaches the kitchen in an instant, the napkins all but forgotten. Bobby is crouched on the floor, wailing in agony. From a distance, she can see that his small hands are now angrily red and covered with a dozen round welts. His brother stands to one side, the oven mitt dangling between his fingers and his facial expression one of utter shock.

She wants to take a step back and remind herself that if she shows fear, her sons will pick up on it and the situation would only escalate. But with adrenaline coursing through her veins, it is all she can do to shout, "Fetch some water, quickly!"

The next few seconds as she holds her four-year-old son, whose face is contorted in unmistakable torment, are the most helpless moments of Margaret Brackenreid's life. Soon enough, her husband comes through with a basin from the water closet. Without hesitation, she pushes the child forwards so that his arms are submerged up to the wrist. The blisters punctuating his skin have began to swell, and soon there would be a loss of blood.

All the while John watches in silence, his expression one of abject horror. He's twelve years old and fancies himself a man, but for the life of him cannot muster a brave face for the situation. As his father bolts from the room, presumably to telephone a physician, he falls to the ground in a dead faint.

-0-

Hours later, as soon as the doctor has left, Margaret returns to the war zone formerly known as her kitchen. John is sent to bed with a pouch of ice and the instructions not to engage in vigorous activity for the next few days, while Bobby sleeps fitfully in the nursery with his hands bandaged to the elbow. Thomas is with him now, presumably to keep the nightmares at bay.

Presently, the floor is sullied with pinkish water and muddy footprints. Dinner lies forgotten on the dining room table, while her dessert has burnt to a crisp in the oven.

There is much to do before she turns in for the night, but Margaret seizes a brief moment of respite, pressing her head into her hands and expelling a ragged sigh.

-0-

At seven years old, Maggie Barlow was a very precocious little girl. She kept her appearance conspicuously tidy, with her bloomers tucked securely into her boots underneath her dresses. She would rise before the sun every day to fix her hair into two neat chestnut plaits, one on either side of her head. And as for the intelligence factor, all you had to do was ask the child in question.

She lived with her parents, Joshua and Martha, as well as two older brothers, Alexander and Robert. Their home was a grand two-story structure to the north of downtown Toronto, equidistant from their family's general store and plumbing operation. They employed the services of a housekeeper and a gardener, and it was Maggie's distinct pleasure to inform anyone that asked that she was _not_ an immigrant, but a third generation _Canadian_.

The family owned a cat that she had named Peaches, for reasons unknown to anyone except her. The feline slept at night in Maggie's bedroom-she was also very proud of the fact that she had one all to herself-at the foot of her pallet. She owned a teddy, a set of painted blocks, and a red-haired dolly called Betsy. If she wanted the use of a baseball bat or glove, she would only have to cross the corridor to her brothers' room. In the evenings after her chores were done, Maggie would sit in the attic at the junction of her home's A-frame and watch the ladies and gentlemen of Toronto maneuver their way to various society functions. She had been to Niagara Falls not once, but _twice_. And, last but not least, she dreamed of becoming a famous lady author. Or a princess.

The Barlow children had been playing in the front yard when their mother, hoisting a lantern high above her head, called them in for the evening. It took a great deal of bellyaching, but she eventually managed to usher them inside, leaving the lamp on the end table in the foyer as she went upstairs to supervise their evening ablutions.

Maggie went to bed without much fanfare, as she often did. Through the open window in her room, she could see the sky painted with stars. Her father would grow to complain about electric lamps and automobiles as the years passed, but that was at least a decade removed from that particular humid June day in 1861.

She had been dreaming of an outing to the fair wherein she was standing before the candy seller's booth. There were sweets in every color and flavor, but what really drew her attention was the orderly cubes of spruce gum, each individually wrapped and stored in a box labelled with the American brand Curtis & Son. She'd seen older boys chewing it in the schoolyard, and Maggie wanted nothing more than to try one. As she seized a piece between two fingers, she was shocked at how hot it was to the touch. A peddler rushed by her in that instant, knocking her to the ground and-

Maggie sat up like a shot in bed and was shocked to see that her room was bathed in vivid orange light. When she reached for the comforter wound around her feet, the girl pulled her hand back immediately. _It was on fire!_

She was up in an instant, stumbling to the door in bare feet. Every step on the smoldering floor was painful; the sound of crackling wood filled her ears. Although it was scorching on her hands, Maggie seized the handle of the door and threw it open.

The entire corridor was awash with flames and thick smoke; anything farther away than her fingers was unrecognizable. Stumbling in the direction of her parents' room, she was distressed to see that their door was shut tight.

"Momma? Poppa?" She called, eyes filling with tears. The fog was almost overwhelming; sinking to her haunches, the little girl hacked into her sleeve.

She heard her name being called from some distance away; a shadowed figure appeared at the end of the hall, and she instantly recognized it as that of her brother Robert.

"Maggie, run!" He had to shout to be heard over the sound of the support beams creaking overhead. If they didn't hurry, the home would soon come falling down around them.

Not stopping to think for a moment, she dashed through several licks of flame to embrace him, pressing her face into his chest. "Where's my kitty? Where's Alexander? Where's-"

The door of the boys' room flew open in that instant, revealing the fourteen-year-old. As the knob fell away from him, the oldest Barlow child collapsed, his strength all but stolen in his fight against the blaze.

She would never grow to forget the sight of her brother's body engulfed in flames, his flesh melting away from his bones in strips.

"You need to get out of here!" Robert repeated, grabbing her wrist and dragging her back into the inferno that had been her bedroom. He made a reach for her waist, which she resisted, but he was much stronger than her.

Maggie found herself crouching on the window sill and peering down at the assembled crowd below. She could make out her mother and father, as well as a score of men from the fire brigade. Between them they held the largest net she'd ever seen away from the docks.

Her brother and the people on the ground encouraged her to jump, but she shouted, "I am not going without you, Bobby!"

"I'll be right behind you," he promised, even though he knew it would be an empty vow. "I'll run back and get Alexander, and then I'll be right down."

Blame it on the pressure of the moment or a childish folly, but Maggie believed him. Tucking her knees to her chest, she fell forward for what seemed to her like an endless moment.

Seconds later, she was in the arms of her mother, whose hair was sticking out at odd angles and covered in soot. The older woman was repeating a few words over and over again: " _Oh, my precious baby...oh, thank God…_ "

A scrap of orange fur, which had been seared off in places, suddenly dashed out of the gaping front door. Maggie lurched downward, but was unable to reach her cat, who continued its escape down the street.

Several neighborhood men, including her father, were preparing to dash back into the house to retrieve the two boys. They'd just talked a handful of firefighters into dropping their hold of the net and joining the expedition when the second story of the home collapsed in on itself, the wooden floors not able to support the added pressure of the blaze. Father took several quick steps away from the porch, which had been doused in embers.

There was a moment of eternal silence, and then a singular wail, capable of freezing the blood in one's veins, erupted from the crowd.

-0-

Having been whisked away in a carriage to one of Toronto's hospitals, Maggie had stared straight ahead and pretended not to hear anything that was said. She was sandwiched between her parents. To her right, her mother soaked handkerchief after handkerchief with large, heavy tears; to her left, father was uttering a string of curse words that would make any pastor blush.

Upon arrival, she'd been checked out for injuries, including mild burns on her feet and a wide band of charred skin on her back. When asked by the physician if it hurt when he pressed on these areas, she'd bit her lower lip and shook her head no.

Mother and father were apparently still under the care of the doctors when Maggie escaped from the exam room. Further down the hall, she found a room filled with countless rows of stretchers, only two of which were occupied.

One body had been covered with a starched white sheet; as she moved closer, she could see the tips of several fingers poking out from the edge of it. At the end of the cot was affixed a label with a neat inscription: _Alexander J. Barlow, fourteen years of age, born the year of our Lord-_

"Maggie," a raspy voice announced its presence a short distance away. Robert lay supine, covers drawn up to his chin. She could see that his face was covered with a foul-smelling white paste, and he struggled to breathe.

Staring at the withered form of her brother, the little girl finally understood. Taking his hand and ignoring the grimace of pain he made, she asked, "You'll tell me what heaven looks like, won't you?"

He smiled, causing the flaps of skin at the corners of his mouth to pucker. "Yes, I think I can see it now. The streets are covered in chocolate candy, you know?"

"Really, Bobby?" She marveled softly, staring into his eyes as if to preserve the moment.

The boy nodded. "And there's Jesus, and Grandmother Winnie, and Uncle Levi. Alexander's just gotten here. They're waiting for me, do you understand that?"

Maggie blinked, but did not say anything. He continued, "It'll be a few years until you see me again, but when you arrive, I'll have your room ready. I have on good authority that you can have all the teddy bears you want, and dollies, and-"

A man in a heavy black coat swept in flanked by two nurses, shooing her away. As the chaplain pulled out a worn Bible and replaced her at the bedside, one of the ladies bent down to her eye level.

"And what's your name, sweetheart?" The other held a clipboard and pencil, as if she was anticipating her response.

"Maggie," she responded plaintively, tears beginning to sting her eyes.

The nurse that was still standing repeated this before finding the proper entry on her list. "Yes, Margaret Barlow. I'm going to take you to see your mother and father. Will this be okay?"

At long last, the little girl could no longer take it. Falling to her knees, she burst into tears.

-0-

Back in the present day, a fully grown Margaret Brackenreid was undressing for a bath. Ever since the incident she'd endured as a child, bathing had allowed her to relax. Water was exactly the opposite as fire, that greedy, destructive thing that she could no longer bear to contemplate.

Making sure the door of the water closet was secured behind her, she shrugs off her robe, coming to stand before the glass mirror in the nude.

Turning to one side, she studies the puckering and scarring that tracks its way across her lower back. Having never been bandaged properly, her wounds neglected to heal. And without the protection of her shoes with the thickened insoles, every step caused her to wince in pain.

Finally, she reached the tub and lowered herself in. The accident that had stolen her family and her happiness had occurred over thirty years ago, but whenever she closed her eyes, she still heard the crackling of wood and saw her brother screaming in agony. Her mother was disinclined to discuss the matter. Even after they'd made up after years of distance and the passing of her father, the sole family photograph of the five of them together remained tucked away in an unseen album, having been charred at the edges and picked out of the rubble of their former home. She'd tried to memorialize them the best she could-it was there, in John Alexander Brackenreid, and her youngest son Bobby-not _Robert_ , just _Bobby_. But it wasn't enough. It could _never_ be enough.

Emerging from the water and swathing herself into a nightgown, Margaret rolled her shoulders back and prepared to face the world. Needless to say, she didn't get very far. Standing toe to toe at the door was her husband, his brows knit together in concern.

"Brings back a lot of memories," he mumbles, not knowing the emotional storm that he's about to unleash.

She falls into his arms, hands wrapping behind him to clasp his shoulders. After a few seconds, she begins to sob loudly, staining his shirt with her tears.

Thomas simply holds her as she lets it out, as he's done so many times before. At the same time, he makes small circles on the small of her back, knowing how it relaxes her frayed muscles. Finally, he decides to broach the subject of the here and now. "They're asleep, Margaret. Perfectly fine."

"I couldn't help them," she laments, feeling the blistered skin of her brother underneath her fingers.

"You were too young, my love. No one could have saved them, not even those doctors. But you have survived for a reason," he assures.

Margaret leans back into the circle of his arms, slightly confused. Her husband wasn't usually a wellspring of wisdom, but the night was full of surprises.

"That's to keep their memory alive," Thomas concluded, noticing that much of her crying had subsided.

They finally stepped apart, she wiping her eyes in the sleeve of her nightgown. "You are right," she admitted, and joined him in the walk to their bedroom.

Out of habit, the pair stopped at the doors that led to the adjacent bedrooms of their sons. At last, Margaret concluded, "I am going to sleep in the bed with Bobby tonight, and in the morning I'm going to tell him about the time his uncles and I went frogging in our neighbor's pond after midnight."

"Is that the time he called the constabulary on you?" Thomas questioned, and was relieved to see her lips part in a mischievous grin.

Before they parted for the final time that night, it was agreed that the inspector would turn in on the trundle in John's room. This was the first time the couple had resolved to do this, and it felt oddly _right_. They embraced once more, without a hint of tension, and separated on opposite sides of the hallway.

Bobby's room was illuminated by the shadow of the moon, which was presently in its waning phase. As she pulled back the covers and settled down, the small boy shifted and opened his eyes.

"Mommy," he mumbled. "Here." And then, not without the added encumbrance of his bandaged hands, he patted a section of the pillow beside his head.

"Yes, dear," she whispered, kissing his brow. Just before she drifted off to sleep, lulled by the steady sounds of her son's breathing, Margaret added, "I'm glad you're safe."

 **The End**


End file.
